Since earliest
antiquity CMES—Consilium
magorum et sagarum, The
Council of Magicians and Witches, held sway over the paranormal
communities of the earth. Their self-centered agenda of power and
dominion, and blatant use of dark magic, chafed those allied to them
and not.

For almost as long
TIIIS—The International Integrated Interface Society, while vexed
by CMES’ oppression, never found itself in a position to challenge
it. That all changed when J.J. Stone, the carrier of The First Soul
of Creation, became their new Lictor of Magic and champion for good.

I Am the Storm
is the final installment of The Adventures of J.J. Stone. In it,
Stone,
now a well-seasoned soldier-magician and defender against evil,
overcomes several challenges and, in the end, vanquishes CMES. Now so
cowed, an uneasy peace settles upon the paranormal world.

How many times did
you wish you could go where the story took place? That mummy’s
tomb? That Caribbean pirate ship? Normandy Beach or the Alamo?

For
Harry Potter, there is Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross Station, the
Reptile House at the London Zoo, Leadenhall Market, and the Tower
Bridge. Universal has an entire Wizarding World devoted to the famous
J.K. Rowling series.

But
did you ever read a book that told you where to go? To actually see
what inspired the writer? Or where the action took place?

Well,
now you can. Sleuth out any of the following GPS coordinates of J.J.
Stone’s first adventure. Be sure to have a USB adaptor handy that
is appropriate for your device.

Good
hunting!

1:
GPS: Lat: 47°29’ 14.27” N. Long: 19°03’ 10.03” E.

2:
GPS: Lat: 52° 30’ 37.16” N. Long: 13° 25’ 10.03” E.

3:
GPS: Lat: 41° 23’ 50.87” N. Long: 2° 11’ 56.58” E.

4:
GPS: Lat: 48° 51’ 04.60” N. Long: 2° 17’ 34.14” E.

5:
GPS: Lat: 39° 37’ 01.34” N. Long: 104° 47’ 54.97” W.

6:
GPS: Lat: 41° 48’ 36.70” N. Long: 88° 09’ 15.44” W.

7:
GPS: Lat: 40° 45’ 36.88 N. Long: 73° 58’ 33.87” W.

8:
GPS: Lat: 40° 43’ 09.22” N. Long: 73° 59’ 56.08” W.

PROLOGUE

What may seem to us
as irreconcilable, the old ones took as complementary, and thus as
confirmation of the manifold powers of the gods. Although ancient
logic is not ours, it has its own consistency and integrity.
Consequently, one must leave behind the world of rational and
scientific causality in order to gain entrance to the world of magic.

I’m the latest in
a long line that has held the righteous title of Lictor of Magic.
That makes me an actual demon slaying exorcist. The International
Integrated Interface Society trained me for this gig and I have
become … proficient. I still have a long way to go, in my mind, a
long, long way.

From demon-possessed
politicians to hellish fiends conjured by despicable practitioners, I
have dispatched them all. Fortunately, these things
are easily identified by their horrific auras, which are dark, black,
and in the most hard-core cases, wriggle and squirm about like slimy
obsidian eels.

I have a lot of work
ahead of me. How much? At last count about eight hundred years’
worth of demons to hack through, ever since they began to illicitly
seep into the mortal realm.

That leak was mended
a year or so back. In truth, the soul I carry, the First Soul of
Creation, actually performed all the fancy stitching, I just got us
to the right place, at the right time. Now it’s up to us to put
things back into balance once again. As I said, about eight hundred
years’ worth of demons need slaying.

That’s lots of
practice.

* * *

About
two weeks earlier, the ever-venerable Mr. Henry and I sat under a
weathered pine overhang at a scenic upland gas stop. Shaded from a
cloudless New Mexican sun, we were frankly parched and hungry after
our hike. Several guzzled beers later, we wolfed down some potato
chips and a couple of god-awful microwaved hot dogs.

Mr. Henry’s words
launched me back several hours, to an obscure cave opening blocked
with spider webbing. A swipe from a handy stick and we entered its
split-rock opening, stepping over a tiny stream that dribbled out,
mercury-like, into the sunshine.

Dark, quiet, and
smelling vaguely moldy, we shined our flashlights within this narrow
passage, skimming our beams over its towering walls. It then opened
up into a chamber that swallowed our beams. Our shoes crunched on a
dry, sandy floor.

I concentrated.
“Yeah. It sounds like a river flowing near us, in the rock, just
beyond our reach.”

I reached out and
touched the gently vibrating side wall. And that’s all she wrote,
until I came to, on the floor, with Mr. Henry kneeling over me with a
worried look on his face.

“J.J! J.J! Are you
all right?”

“What happened?”
I asked, dazed and confused. I won’t sugar-coat it, something had
leveled me. I tasted copper in my mouth. I must have bitten my
tongue.

Mr. Henry, clearly
relieved at my return, said, “You’ve been out for a full minute.
Boy, you gave me a fright. I even had to catch you before you
cold-cocked yourself good on the floor.”

“I reached out to
feel that wall. Never have felt anything like it before. It knocked
me for a loop.”

“Oh,” the
Fourth-Class Adept said laconically, as he hovered the palm of his
hand over where I had pointed.

“That’s a
powerful hot spot, got to be a side branch of the Silver Nile.”

I attempted to get
up.

“J.J., stop. Take
a good inventory. Are you okay?”

“I think so. But
give me a hand. I don’t want to touch any more walls.”

Once up, I felt
light-headed, but everything else seemed to work just fine.

“Jesus, Mr. Henry,
you’re glowing. Your aura is really amped up.”

Looking down at his
hands, then at me, Mr. Henry corrected. “No, it’s not me, it’s
you. Your usual aura has become sparkly somehow. I think you’ve
been charged up. Now, as a test, try to read my mind.”

I did, as easily as
if I were looking into a beer cooler, and said so.

“Well, now,
that’s mighty interesting. I indeed had a frosty beer in mind, but
I had my blocks on full. How hard did you try?”

“I didn’t. I
just did it. This is really freaking me out. What else did the Silver
Nile do to me?”

“There’s no
telling, son. But just for safety, let’s get out of this
god-forsaken cave. But take it slow.”

“By the way, Mr.
Henry, where’s your flashlight?”

“I must have
dropped it somewhere.”

“I can see you
clear as day. Now let me find the flashlight. It’s got to be around
here somewhere near. I can feel it.”

* * *

That’s why Mr.
Henry called me, J.J 2.0. I had accidentally tapped into
the
ley line of the American Southwest—the Silver Nile—and received a
dose of its psychic energy. That alone explained why I conked out,
and my amplified physical and paranormal senses.

What do I mean?
Consider this. I was born with an Innate Paranormal Ability Rating of
ten. The scale doesn’t go any higher. Sixth Class Adepts, the
highest known by my society, typically are rated at five to six on
the IPAR scale.

On top of that, my
Soul Numeral was one, meaning, I carried the First Soul of Creation.
So right out of the block, I grew up as a hyper-sensitive paranormal
who routinely perceived and interpreted the auras of living
creatures.

To be completely
honest, I’m not sure what
the Silver Nile did to me. Just that afterward, I found my senses and
abilities highly enhanced.

Since that
experience, I have noticed that auras appeared brighter, more
detailed, even rippled with signs of strength or exhaustion. My sixth
sense sharpened to a preternatural level where my intuition became so
sure that reality sometimes got fuzzy; as in “did that happen yet?”
My motor reflexes, much augmented, were altered to a cheetah-like
twitch. My ability to exorcize a demon from an unfortunate mortal, by
touch alone, came naturally. It was like I had become their
Kryptonite.

Once again, I found
myself in uncertain territory at the worst possible time. Unsure of
myself and my newly augmented abilities, I rode my brand new bike
like it had training wheels. Meanwhile, I was on the run—staying
two steps ahead of an evil international paranormal organization bent
on putting me in the ground.

Truth be told, I had
earned the rapt attention of the Consilium
magorum et sagarum.
Yes, I single-handedly eliminated one of their hit squads in the
Santa Fe National Forest. Yes, I ruined their North American
headquarters in Manhattan. And yes, I assassinated their regional
director and stole his much-coveted Book
of Spells.

By all counts, I
admit these deeds made me a high-priority target. Fortunately, they
didn’t know I had assassinated their international chairman as
well—a man whose own blood-sworn oracle wanted removed. As they
say, “he was not greatly loved.”

On the other hand,
and in my defense, never forget that since my birth, CMES had
targeted me for destruction several times. Why you might ask? Chiefly
because I carried the First Soul. Add to that, each and every one of
my actions against CMES I undertook in response to one of their
horrible atrocities—like infant human sacrifice, crucifixion, and
assassination.

Seldom had the
biblical adage, “an eye for an eye,” been more rigorously
applied. Usually, the paranormal community smoothed over such
injuries with the more peaceful concept of Wehrgeld,
“man-money.” Yes, this tit-for-tat feud between my society and
CMES had spiraled into a low-grade paranormal war between good and
evil.

When I first signed
up to be the muscle for the paranormal “good guys,” TIIIS, little
did I know how rapidly I would get such a long rap sheet. So who were
these good guys I work for? Think of them as Nature’s own counter
balance that represented good versus evil, light versus darkness,
freedom versus oppression. Without question, TIIIS was an odd anagram
for an obscure paranormal society made up of sensitives, telepaths,
telekinetic athletes, and outright gifted white witches and wizards.
Were they perfect? Hardly.

Before I showed up,
TIIIS’ external policy had been that of a box turtle—passive, and
defensive, with precious little desire for anything offensive or
retaliatory in nature. CMES would dish it out, and TIIIS was content
to absorb it and survive.

However, when I
became their Lictor of Magic—their enforcer of external policy—that
all changed. Since I was a decorated U.S. Marine veteran and non-com
officer, I knew what a battlefield smelled like. Crucially, I had
killed—many times. TIIIS’ then president recognized the
opportunity and turned me loose.

In spite of TIIIS’
many odd turns of tradition and policy, I remained a man of moral
conscience, who stood apart and jealously held to my own true nature.
I could say no, and often did. But throughout all the mayhem I was
never truly alone, for I had an ally, the First Soul itself. This
spiritual companion I conversed with quite often.

Given my role in
shaping TIIIS’ external policy, President Silver Moon directed me
to lay low and off the grid. I wasn’t really all that surprised. I
had been busy giving CMES fits. At the same time, I was on call on a
twenty-four/seven basis. Which sorta puts a crimp in your social
life, though management didn’t see it that way.

Then things got
really interesting.

Chapter
1

The
Raid of Late 2010

A
choking gray smoke tried to fill my lungs, but the respirators in my
urban combat suit’s facemask held it at bay. Instead, I tasted my
own recycled bad breath of pizza, garlic, and onions. I licked lips
covered with nervous sweat. My mask’s goggles, in one sense,
protected my eyes from all the soot in the air, but not from what
they beheld—the grotesque human carnage.

A portion of the
TIIIS campus at Old Oaks Academy, nestled in a southwestern
Pennsylvania forest, had been transformed into a modern battlefield.
The blackened limestone remains of the campus’ once graceful gothic
chapel amounted to one intact flying buttress and an adjacent wall
fragment. The burned near-dead, looking like darkened and broken
twigs, wailed for release, while the truly dead had been reduced to
ash during the initial, surprise attack.

It was Christmas Eve
and a fairytale-like snowfall had made it perfect and serene. The
remaining holiday population, students and staff alike, had filed
into the chapel’s spacious confines for Midnight Mass, about one
hundred in all. In hindsight, it made for an-all-too-easy target, so
very ripe for harvesting. It was payback for our ruination of their
Manhattan headquarters.

* * *

The
displays of Marauder One’s cockpit bathed its pilots’ helmets and
goggled faces in red, making them look more like blood-thirsty
praying mantises than men.

“Marauder One to
flight. Engage IR and acquire target,” the lead pilot transmitted
to his three comrades, who, one by one, promptly acknowledged.

Meanwhile, his
copilot and weapons officer pressed his face into the soft foam
padding of his IR camera’s targeting sight.

“Target acquired,”
he confirmed into his stalk mike as his thumb caressed the fire
button’s stub in anticipation. The sight was amazing. From this
range and altitude he could make out row upon row of thermal blobs
through the tall, spear-shaped stained glass windows. Three
individuals stood at one end of the structure before the flickering
pinpoints of six altar candles.

“Fire on my mark …
FIRE!” the lead pilot ordered.

As one, four weapons
officers pressed their fire buttons. The result was a something right
out of the Fourth of July, but instead of going up, luminous trails
arched down from the horizontal. All met at the gracefully built
stone structure. And it was no more.

The weapon’s
officer of Marauder One, upon firing his rockets, whispered, “Trick
or Treat, motherfuckers.”

The first volley of
eight Hellfire missiles simultaneously struck, ignited, and crumpled
the four sides of the chapel, illuminating the surrounding grounds in
a ghastly scarlet glare.

“FIRE.”

The second volley
intersected and pulverized the collapsing roof before it had a chance
to hit the ground.

“FIRE.”

The rockets of the
last salvo flew right through the leveled structure, now engulfed in
flame and smoke, impacting in a crisscross pattern the surrounding
terrain. Many exploded leaving dirty scars in the white terrain, some
did not. Instead, they simply burrowed into the earth or skipped
across the snow-covered surface. Finally coming to rest, they
transformed into dangerous liabilities for the bomb disposal units.

“Cease fire.
Prepare to deploy.”

* * *

I
saw them as they swooped in silently like owls in the night. Their
heavily muffled engines and broad rotor blades made such stealth
possible. After their rocket attack upon the chapel, they dared to
land, full with bold intent, to mop up and plunder.

That’s when I got
into the act, for I had been late to that doomed midnight service. I
had been on the phone with mom and dad several time zones away. That
was when I first heard the unmistakable sounds of full scale combat,
something that I hadn’t experienced since my Marine days in Iraq. I
got geared up and ran out of my dorm.

Moving about in my
one piece UCS, its light-bending fabric making me an
indistinguishable wraith, I hid behind the heavy snowfall and smoke.
Methodically, I went about my grim task of hunting down and
slaughtering their assault teams. My ceramic Bone Sword quickly
claimed forty-three. These losses were quickly noted by their squad
leaders as unit recall whistles began blowing all around me, echoing
oddly against the curtains of snow.

Their departure,
too, I would disrupt. They would not escape this horror they’d
brought on.

I gutted all in the
first helicopter as I ran up its lowered cargo ramp, silently
claiming anyone in my path, transforming its hold into a splattered
butchery. Its pilots, tucked away within their cramped and heavily
armored confines, I dispatched with my 9mm—two rounds for each.

The second transport
I caught just as it spooled up for takeoff. For whatever reason, its
copilot had his side curtain ajar. Through that convenient opening I
slam-dunked a thermite grenade, which I had liberated from a dead
soldier. The lumbering machine, its cockpit transformed into an
inferno, immediately augured into the ground, flipping the massive
twin-rotor Chinook onto its back. Its rotor blades surreally
wind-milling into a once manicured lawn, slewing out ragged clumps of
shrapnel-like sod.

I sprinted away,
sending danger. Moments later, an aviation-fuel-fireball engulfed the
stricken airframe and plumed skyward, lighting up the scene with
stark, hellish shadows. In the process, I saw yet another transport
on the ground.

I made for it
without a thought as to how to cripple it. All I knew was it was dead
meat.

* * *

The
pilot of Marauder Two overheard the terrified chatter of the ground
troops and their squad leaders as something unseen attacked them left
and right. No one had expected a hot landing zone. Wisely, Marauder
One signaled for their immediate recall, but suddenly went off the
air in mid-sentence.

Marauder Two’s
copilot frantically asked, “How long will we wait?”

His seasoned pilot
answered tersely, “Two mikes. Those grunts deserve that, at the
very least.”

“Two minutes!
That’s an eternity on a hot LZ!”

Almost as an
exclamation point to the copilot’s concerns, a helicopter blew up
in a fiery plume.

“Holy shit! Get us
out of here!” the copilot begged.

“Steady, Freeman.
I see a group of stragglers boarding in my mirror. Do something
useful. Man the chain gun. Give them some cover fire.”

KRUMMP! The
massive report of a second transport blowing up rolled over them. The
shockwave shook Marauder Two’s airframe as if it were a toy.

The pilot checked
his mirrors and seeing a partially filled cargo hold, made a hard
decision, “Things are heating up fast. Time to fly.” With a heavy
sigh of resignation he pulled back on his stick and lifted off.

“Jesus, Peters,”
Freeman said while craning his head around, “there must be twenty
guys we left back there. They’re waving at us to come back and pick
them up!”

“They’re all
dead men,” Peters said. “Just watch.”

As they gained
altitude, the copilot saw the stragglers were now falling like
puppets without strings.

There’s
something out there mowing them down.

BRRRRRRRRR!
Freeman stitched the earth with the chain gun in frustration while
hoping to hit something he couldn’t see.

“How did you
know?” the copilot gasped wide-eyed.

“Someone, or
something, shut down three of our transports. I wasn’t eager to
join them.”

* * *

Eighty-three
dead. Twenty-seven injured.

That was the latest
casualty report on the TIIIS personnel. Still full of blood-lust, I
walked about in a daze, frisking my kills for any intel I could find,
anything that would answer the questions of “who,” or “where
from.”

I counted them, all
the time wishing for more, like those poor bastards left behind by
the last helicopter.

Among them I found
no goons—half-human, half-demon surrogates. No. All were fully
human. That fact alone shook me to the bone.

Examining closely a
corpse while down on one knee, I thought, who
in their right mind would willingly go to into battle on Christmas
Eve? Much less fire volley after volley of Hellfire missiles into a
packed chapel?

You already know
the answer to that question, Soul Carrier,
the First Soul commented, my spiritual partner-in-crime since birth.

Yeah. You’re
right. It’s just hard to figure.

Not at all, Soul
Carrier. We are dealing with evil, pure and simple, and it comes in
all guises. They all knew what they were doing and getting into.

That clinical
observation caused me to pause. But this fragile moment of
introspection was broken by the voice of President Betsy Silver Moon,
which instantly brought me back to the here and now.

“Lictor of Magic.
Stand down.” She crisply ordered.

In response, I stood
up, erect and at attention, with my Bone Sword in hand, and stared
back at the feisty and diminutive Native American. I marveled at her
command presence. In my eyes she stood ten feet tall in that dark
trench coat.

“Yes, ma’am.”
I replied hoarsely as I sheathed my sword across my back.

“Lictor of Magic,
remove your facemask so I can better see you. That’s better, but
you still look like hell. Do you have anything to report?”

“Yes, ma’am. All
were humans. None had any ID or personal papers; that makes them
pros. Their nationality appears mixed. My best guess, and you will
not like this, is predominately Eastern European, maybe Chechen.
Their weapons and ammo are all Eastern European knock-offs. Totally
untraceable. I think their thermite grenades are of Chinese
manufacture.”

The president paused
a moment while she digested my intel. Her face took on a look of
resignation, or, was it confirmation?

“Mr. Stone, do you
even know what time it is?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s ten-thirty
in the morning. How long have you been on duty?”

“Not sure, ma’am.
Probably, maybe, nine, ten hours.”

“Then hit the
showers, eat, and get some rack time, soldier. You got that?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is
Old Main even open?”

“Yes, it is. Go
there. Now.” She pointed. “They’re expecting you.”

* * *

Silver
Moon could not believe her eyes. Before her stood this
sword-wielding, blood splattered giant. His gore-covered UCS tried to
blend into its blindingly bright white surroundings, but failed
miserably, constantly shifting its coloration this way and that.

Stone, her society’s
Lictor of Magic, had almost single-handedly saved the rest of the
campus. What he hadn’t killed, the campus security unit did. This
she knew because she too had counted the enemy dead. Stone’s
telltales had been the easiest to spot—decapitations, torso
guttings, missing limbs, atrocious wounds. By her own count, Stone
had claimed close to eighty CMES troopers and, purportedly, three
helicopter transports. Apparently, the fourth just managed to escape
him. Stone, she decided there and then, was a one-man wrecking crew.
But, really, she already knew that. What he had done to four CMES
squads in the Santa Fe National Forest was proof enough.

She also knew for a
fact that this bold attack on the Academy, CMES’ second such foray,
was only the latest escalation in their ongoing war. Soon, there
would be an outcry for revenge. Stone would surely want a piece of
that action, and the war would grind on and ratchet up in an
ever-rising tempo of destruction and mayhem.

I will have to
tamp down the initial primal urge for vengeance. Our response must be
measured, in kind, and appropriate. Otherwise, we will descend to
their level of depravity.

Then an icy chill
ran up her spine.

But Betsy, where
will that response ultimately lead?

Taking a deep breath
to calm herself, the TIIIS president caught the sweetness of death
all around her, mixed in with the truly rank and putrid. She scanned
her surroundings and noted for the first time the flattened and
melting snow, the many patches of rusty, coagulated red where her
colleagues and friends once lay. The black uniformed bodies of the
CMES assault troops that wallowed in their own private pools.
Towering over these fragile organic remains sat one inert helicopter
transport and the strewn and twisted wreckage of two others that
littered a once bucolic campus.

Finally, Silver
Moon’s eyes settled upon the blackened chapel itself. In the bright
sunshine its lone buttress looked like a charred brontosaurus rib
leaning up against a slivered wall fragment.

“What do you
propose we do with the remains of the CMES personnel? Strip their
weaponry and send it all to the armory. Have a mass grave dug, at the
edge of the tree line over there,” she indicated with her chin,
“and burn them. Burn them all.”

This directive
earned a frown from the impeccably dressed man.

Silver Moon saw his
disapproval. With her hands on hips, she quietly said, “Mr. Porter.
Would you prefer I FedEx them all to a certain Rome address?”

“Oh no, Madam
President.”

“Good. Now, have
our people been properly attended to?”

“Oh yes, Madam
President. All the wounded are in the infirmary. Many of the dead
have been claimed by their next of kin, but nineteen do not have …
ah … a place to go.”

After a moment of
thought, Silver Moon glanced back over at the chapel and smiled for
the first time that morning. “The foundation of our ruined chapel
will become their cenotaph. Raise nineteen pavement stones, and
prepare each for burial. A campus-wide funeral service will take
place in three days. Thereafter, I want their names properly
inscribed.”

“Very good, Madam
President. But what of the rest of the … debris?”

“After the
funeral, I want all the unexploded ordinance cleared, the intact
helicopter moved to our hanger, and this campus restored to its
pristine condition, with one exception.” She pointed, “That
chapel is not to be restored in any manner. It is to remain as a
monument and reminder to all.”

* * *

I
never liked funerals. I had participated in far too many of them in
Iraq. But at least those memorials had been relatively brief,
intensely emotional remembrances of one to eight heroic soldiers at a
time—not seventy-three civilians.

I stood at attention
dressed in my black suit throughout the reading of the names. Most I
did not know. I probably would have recognized their faces, but I
failed miserably at putting a name to a face.

But not all.

I lost Mr. Theodore
Good, my favorite teacher of demonology, colleague in ancient
languages, and source of good advice. My last memory of him was at
the Pressure Cooker. He had been much relieved after I had destroyed
an especially cunning demon, which he had accidentally conjured while
translating an obscure text.

I lost also Mr.
Gregory Loomis, the society’s master armorer, who constructed my
UCS, crafted my Bone Sword, and initiated me into the way of the
sword. I will sorely miss his thick Scottish brogue, dry humor, quick
turn of phrase, and his goading at the pell.

On the other hand, a
handful was counted among the living. They had sustained injuries,
several severely, due to the assault.

Among them was Mr.
Henri Dexter, who without question is the society’s master of
lethal offensive and defensive magic. Mr. Dexter, while seated within
the Chapel, had sensed the attack at the last moment. Spreading his
arms out wide, he had saved himself and two others within a
protective bubble of magic. In the process, he endured unspeakable
burns to his back. While he will recover, many skin grafts will be
necessary.

My young friend with
the IT and Security Department, Mr. Joshua Remington, sustained
multiple gunshot wounds, yet soldiered on in the defense of the
Academy, its students, and staff. Many of his department, however,
had not been so lucky. He’s young. He’ll mend.

My mind wandered and
my eyes filled with tears of thanksgiving. Mr. Henry and Peter Glass
had not been on campus during the raid. Neither had President Silver
Moon and countless others. Best of all, my Mel was back in San
Francisco, safe and sound.

It was then I heard
President Silver Moon speaking words meant to heal and soothe. But
for me, they were a clarion call to action.

* * *

Following
what came to be known as the Christmas Eve Massacre, TIIIS resources
began appearing at the Academy to take up the slack. One of those
many was none other than Mr. Henry, whose presence I truly
appreciated.

“Bloody business
this,” he whispered into my chest upon greeting one another.

Looking me in the
eye past his bushy white eyebrows, he asked, “How bad was it?”

“A nasty night
fight. Very ancient in character. Very close, personal. What I always
imaged the last engagement at the Battle of Thermopylae might have
been like.”

“Oh, yeah. Mel has
even committed to spending the summer here for offensive and
defensive training in lethal magic.”

“You don’t say …
that sounds like she’s serious. But are you?”

“Yes, sir. I
figure we’ll make a formidable pair.”

“I’ll just bet.”

* * *

Mel.
My God, where do I begin? Professor Melaina Makris, my Mel, has more
facets to her than a fancy cut Belgium diamond.

Let me start with
the basics: born an Alexandrian Egyptian in 1970, Coptic Christian,
fluent in Arabic, French, and English, the offspring of two powerful
sensitives, educated at Oxford and the University of Chicago, now a
full professor at Berkeley in their Ancient Near Eastern Languages
Department.

Exotic, if not
stunning in appearance, Melaina represented a mix of Egyptian and
Greek. Her honeyed visage possessed a narrow long nose, high
cheekbones, and full lips. Her shiny jet-black hair hid her
large-lobbed ears and framed her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes,
which were chock full of glinting intelligence. Lean and willowy of
build, she stood five foot nine with delicate hands notable for their
long, artistic, almost spidery fingers.

She was one of the
white witches in attendance at my first academic presentation in San
Francisco. Because of that paper, she later sought me out at the
University of Pennsylvania, where my academic advisor, Peter Glass,
introduced us. That “chance” meeting led to lunch, which
triggered an intriguing and surprisingly frank shop talk discussion,
after which I left the Greasy Onion with my head in a spin. She had
pursued her academic career early in life, while I had enlisted in
the U.S. Marines. Yet, here we were, discussing magic from two very
different points of view. As the carrier of the First Soul, I was
practically born to it, while she only realized her potential after
finding and translating her family’s book of spells.

Frankly, I didn’t
think much about the social aspects of that lunch. She was an older
full professor at a big school and I was an awed, focused, heads-down
studying undergrad. But the academic upside was formidable, because
Peter Glass headed up a special research group dedicated to magic in
the ancient Near East. Professor Makris was a part of that inner
group. I was studying and translating demonic Sumerian tablets at PU.
So, I figured that if I played my cards right I too might become a
member of this select group.

That all changed,
however, when Professor Makris presented me with a protective amulet
to wear. Not thinking much of the little mummiform object on a
leather thong, I considered the present a good luck charm and nothing
more. Stupid me.

During a serious
paranormal standoff between the evil Charles Smithers and his twin
brother, the former president of TIIIS, Peter Smithers, I got roughed
up quite a bit. Here’s the kicker—so did Professor Makris who had
been wearing the amulet’s identical twin. The black eye and bruises
that I got were shared with her. The amulet’s reciprocal nature I
hadn’t known about.

Apparently, when
Professor Makris experienced these injuries, she then understood why
the construction of this particular amulet had been included in her
family’s spell book. It was meant to be worn by family members. In
essence, the amulets so crafted, shared and, therefore, halved the
effect of any magic or physical harm that may befall its wearers. It
was only later that she rather sheepishly admitted what had happened,
but only after sharing a gunshot wound to her upper arm. As a result,
the good professor eventually took off her amulet to prevent this
sort of reciprocity from occurring again.

After I graduated
from PU and began in earnest my duties as TIIIS’ Lictor of Magic,
my interest in Professor Makris again shifted. What held me back was
a well-grounded fear that someone would harm her for just being my
friend. That had already been tried twice with my parents. But the
First Soul’s counsel slowly turned this reluctant social dinosaur,
and I began to seriously accept the idea that Mel understood the
dangers involved.

What nearly broke it
for me was Mel’s surprise visitation one evening as an astral
projection and the concern about me that she shared. I almost balked,
but my spiritual companion, the First Soul, did point out that she,
once again, had reached out to me and what on earth was I waiting
for.

But it was Mel’s
invitation to give a paper on a panel devoted to ancient Near Eastern
magic at the University of Chicago’s Oriental Institute, finally
kicked down the door. Even then, I surrendered to her charms only on
the condition that she must take some offensive and defensive magical
courses at the Old Oaks Academy. To this she agreed.

At that point, was I
whipped? Yes, I can now admit it freely. Besides, when you confide
with your parents that you have met a wonderful lady, well, that
about says it all.

Chapter
2

Post-Op
Assessment

Sitting
in his temporary office off of Times Square, a modest hotel room on
the thirty-first floor, William DeSalvo, the new assistant regional
director of CMES North America, heard his laptop ping
at 8:16 in the morning. Word finally arrived from his region’s head
of Communications and Security—the post-action report on the
assault of the TIIIS academy in Pennsylvania.

Anxiously, DeSalvo
read its terse contents, reached over, and gulped down his coffee,
dregs and all. He then threw the empty mug viciously against the
opposite wall, making yet another impression in the wallboard, all
within a tight grouping. Several deep breaths helped, but it didn’t
calm the Roman. That the coffee mug’s handle now impaled the wall
somehow did.

STONE! That
son-of-a-bitch did it again!

DeSalvo paused and
looked away from his laptop’s screen in disbelief.

How do you lose
so many on a surprise attack?

How is that
possible?

Do I have a
security leak?

His mind reeled as
he juggled the possibilities, searching for an explanation for this
disastrous failure. He masochistically reread what had so vexed him.

The initial target
was neutralized with an estimated kill rate of one hundred percent.
Our tactical mistake was landing. Someone, or something, attacked our
ground troops and helicopters. The return of Marauder Two, which took
off early, leaving behind some assets, prevented the operation from
becoming a complete loss.

Mio Dio.

DeSalvo rubbed at
his clean-shaven chin in thought. Only
one person could have done this—Stone. He did something like this
before in the mountains of New Mexico. The oracle Valeria Costa
specifically warned me about him.

Far more to the
point, DeSalvo realized that his first foray against TIIIS came at a
dear cost. Indeed, he had injured the enemy. TIIIS personnel had
fallen. But
at this rate, how far would the blood-letting go? Until both sides
are bled dry?

DeSalvo sat back and
steepled his fingers in thought. His brow wrinkled under curly hair
that was going gray by the minute. The
key to TIIIS’ new-found bellicosity and effectiveness centers on
Stone. How do I get to Stone?

He punched several
buttons on his desk phone.

“Mr. Kiel. I need
you immediately.” Hanging up, I
need to speak again with Signora
Costa as well.

Several moments
later, DeSalvo heard a knock on his hotel room’s door.

“Enter.”

A fit man in his
fifties did so while carefully avoiding the shattered remains of a
coffee mug on the carpet.

“Sit,” the Roman
pointed to the only chair. The man in the dark suit and tie did.

“Give me your
assessment of Jonathan Joseph Stone’s weaknesses.”

After a few moments,
the ex-government spook and operations officer thoughtfully began.
“Devout Christian and Southern Baptist. Moral to a fault. An
idealist. Unmarried. He has no known social interests. His parents
are still alive, but are nowhere to be found; TIIIS has seen to that.
In short, he’s got none.”

“How can a moral
idealist be so brutally effective on the battlefield?”

“He was a U.S.
Marine.” Kiel gestured with open hands. “Marine doctrine ingrains
certain bloodthirsty qualities, while managing to preserve the
conscience. The use of derogative names de-humanizes the enemy, which
makes them easier to kill. In Stone’s case, demons and the
demon-possessed are no-brainers. His religious upbringing sees to
that. Since he can see auras, and understands what auras reveal about
a full human, he can readily pass judgment on them with a clear
conscience.”

“Mr. Kiel, your
new priority is to find me a weakness.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Several
days later, DeSalvo flew to Italy, rented a bright red Guilia, and
took a short drive into the Roman foothills. In a quaint family
restaurant on a quiet side street in Tivoli, DeSalvo sat down with
the most powerful oracle alive.

“Signora
Costa, what a pleasure it is to see you again,” DeSalvo murmured in
his native Italian to the stunning middle-aged woman of ancient
heritage and frightening ability.

DeSalvo, troubled,
got right down to business.

“Signora
Costa, I come again seeking your wisdom about a matter that we have
already discussed.”

“Ah, Signore
DeSalvo. You must be referring to the l’umo
potente,
that American called Stone. What has he been up to lately?” She
leaned forward against the white linen tablecloth with genuine
interest. Her perfume scented the moment.

“He menaces our
Gathering.”

“Oh, that. Sí,
that is true,” she said with a slight smile and nod. “Has he done
something exceptional recently to heighten your undying hatred?”

“The loss of too
many of our best troops.”

“Oh, so he has
been busy,” she commented, again with that subtle smile, and
followed with a sip of red wine. She twirled the hand-blown glass in
the candlelight examining the legs of alcohol on the glass’s
barrel. Finished, the oracle carefully placed the glass back down on
the white linen.

“Well, signore,
the last time we spoke I told you Stone would become something more
if
he ever came into contact with the ley line called the Silver Nile.
Do you remember that?”

“Sí.”

The waiter arrived
with a linen-covered basket of freshly-baked bread and a plate pooled
in olive oil generously sprinkled with herbs. After he left, she
leaned in again, her perfume wafting.

“Well, he has.
He’s now part of the most powerful ley line of the American
Southwest. As a consequence, anything you tell me about the man, I
will believe.”

Silence.

The waiter returned
to take their order.

“Richardo. Two
daily specials, please.”

The waiter made a
notation on his pad, silently nodded, and left.

The assistant
regional director now leaned across the table and quietly said, “So,
signora,
how can I get to him, if I can’t kill him?”

Looking into her
half full glass of red, the oracle cocked her head to one side.
“Sadly, you can do very little, directly.” Her eyes flashed.
“However, I can suggest several indirect possibilities.”

* * *

Not
by chance, Tivoli was only some twenty miles from CMES’ central
headquarters north of Rome. Per his agreement with Feng Bai, the
newly appointed chairman of CMES, DeSalvo owed the man a progress
report on Stone and what was being done about him. The assistant
director wanted to tell his boss face-to-face not only the grim news
of the disastrous raid, but also to offer a potential solution.

The Rome center
consisted of a villa that stood atop a hillock of limestone and
barren, lifeless sand. When seen from the air, its faded red tiled
roof surrounded a parched gravel and terrazzo enclosure with deeply
shadowed porticos. This desolate façade fronted a myriad of
underground chambers that honeycombed the bedrock of this
stoutly-defended outcrop.

Stark and
forbidding, this was the home of CMES, with a membership that
reverently referred to this hallowed ground as Romae
matrem,
“Mother Rome,” since its relocation there in 30 BC after the fall
of Ptolemaic Egypt to Augustus’ legions.

DeSalvo met with
Feng Bai within a newly renovated high-ceilinged chamber, an airy
space which was once a grand dining room. Transformed to suit Feng
Bai’s Hong Kong tastes, his office was a serene island of silk
pastel carpeting centered on an inlaid wooden floor. A low desk and
cushioned furniture made of fragrant teak woods completed it. Long
removed were the ostentatiously gilded high baroque appointments from
the previous administration. DeSalvo intimately knew all about this,
for he had, as the former chairman’s assistant, been in charge of
that administrative transition.

Still, upon entering
the chairman’s office area, DeSalvo sensed a tension in the air he
would have to somehow relieve. If he didn’t, he knew he would leave
as a dead man.

Standing in his
socks at the leading edge of the luxuriant carpeting, DeSalvo waited
for the chairman’s acknowledgement before entering his space. He
knew Feng Bai had heard his approach, but had continued on with his
writing nonetheless. Finally, the man put down his pen, raised his
bald head, and signaled the Italian to approach.

Still DeSalvo stood
patiently, awaiting the invitation to sit. Feng Bai’s eyes softened
ever so slightly at his guest’s careful deference, his appreciation
of place, especially given the precarious nature of his situation.
Feng Bai nodded toward a cushion. His subordinate sat.

After a few moments,
a deep sigh came from the chairman.

“Signore
DeSalvo,” the chairman began in flawless high Italian, “my ears
have heard some distressing news.”

Feng Bai, a kinesic
empath and telepath, mastered languages with ease and enjoyed
unnerving many by addressing them in their native tongue. Still, the
man had his favorites—Cantonese, Mandarin, and Thai in the East,
and Spanish and Italian in the West, based purely on their tonal
qualities. The many Germanic and Slavic tongues he spoke as well, but
he found their guttural sounds distasteful. No one knew what his
preferences were on the many Arabic dialects, even though he could
seamlessly speak them.

Ah,
DeSalvo thought, I
see that my superior in New York, El-Najjar, has taken the
opportunity to sarcastically sing my praises.

“Chairman, I am
burdened with far worse news.”

This caused the
chairman’s eyebrows to raise, his round face to pale.

“Speak.”

“Mr. Chairman,
J.J. Stone, the TIIIS Lictor of Magic, has come into contact with a
powerful North American ley line called the Silver Nile. The man has
evolved, and my assault teams blundered directly into him. Prior to
the raid, we did not know of this development.”

At this turn of
events, the chairman sat back and slitted his eyes. “Tell me more.”

“Yesterday, I took
the initiative and was informed of this information by Signora
Valeria Costa, the former oracle of the Presto familigia.
Just what Stone’s capabilities are, at this point, no one knows.
Frankly, sir, I would counsel that we should henceforth expect the
worst.”

Again, Feng Bai’s
eyebrows rose, causing wrinkles to form high up his scalp.

“I am very
familiar with Signora
Costa’s flawless reputation and I commend you for consulting with
her. But when you say, ‘expect the worst,’ what precisely do you
mean?”

“Signora
Costa has called Stone an l’umo
potente.
While not a precise term, it is evocative of the man’s power and
potential. Additionally, I discussed with the oracle a possible means
of injuring him.”

“And …”

“She advised me to
systematically and graphically remove all of his friends and
relatives. She further suggested that such a course of action would
eventually drive him mad with grief, perhaps even to suicide.”

Several moments
passed as Feng Bai stared holes through DeSalvo’s head, who somehow
remained resolute and cool.

Finally. “Is this
not the same man who killed our security forces somewhere in the
American West?”

“Sí,
Mr. Chairman.”

“And Stone, now
enhanced, has killed many more of our brethren?”

“Sí,
Mr. Chairman.”

The chairman’s
fingers began drumming rhythmically on his desk’s green leather
writing pad.

“First, I find
Signora
Costa’s recommendations overly hopeful and ludicrously weak. If
anything, if any harm befell Stone’s friends and family, I would
fear the man’s vengeance long before his suicidal grief. Stone is a
soldier, a warrior, a bannerman, first and foremost.”

“Second, is there
any possibility that the man might become one of us?”

DeSalvo had never
before entertained that audacious thought, and he even dared to say
so.

“Finally, Signore
DeSalvo,” Feng Bai’s eyes hardened, “you are a cultured man. I
have faith in you. Otherwise, you would be dead.”

CHAPTER 3

The
Thirty-First Floor

Times
of high stress or grief motivate people. I experienced this all too
often while in the military. So when an old acquaintance called me
up, I wasn’t really all that surprised.

“Is that you, Mr.
Stone?” a tentative male voice asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Stone, this
is Alex Grimes, we met a while back during a traffic stop on the New
Jersey Turnpike. I was driving a bright yellow Ferrari Spider.
Remember that?”

On the other end of
the line was Gordi Meneer, a former CMES researcher and freelance
news journalist, but now with a new identity—Alex Grimes.

“Oh, you bet I
do.” I answered having finally put two and two together. “So
how’s the Wild West working out for you, Mr. Grimes?”

“Just wonderful.”
I could hear the crinkle of his smile in his voice.

“So what can I do
for you, Mr. Grimes?”

In a conspiratorial
tone, “Well, just yesterday, right out-of-the-blue, I was visiting
the Georgia O’Keefe Museum in Santa Fe over on Johnson Street, when
I ran into an old friend of mine. What are the odds? Well, she was
bitching a blue streak about the poor morale in her finance
department to the point she quit her job. She also told me where her
former employer is located. It turns out that they’re all crammed
in like sardines onto the thirty-first floor of a hotel overlooking
Times Square. Needless to say, I figured that you would appreciate
knowing that.”

“Indeed, I would.”
Stone said juggling his smart phone against his right ear. “I have
my pen ready. What’s the address?”

Later, after I had
finished shooting the breeze with Grimes, I was back on the phone.

“May I speak with
President Silver Moon?” I said to an unfamiliar male voice.

“And who’s
this?”

“Sir, my name is
J.J. Stone.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stone.
I’m new at this post. One moment please.”

After a brief pause,
a connection was made.

“What can I do for
you, Mr. Stone?” President Silver Moon said in her crisp,
business-like way.

“Madam President,
I have acquired the address of the temporary CMES North American
headquarters.”

“You don’t say.”

“Ma’am, what do
you want me to do with this information?”

“I will leave that
up to you, Lictor of Magic. Rely on your common sense and keep me in
the loop.”

“Will do, Madam
President.”

* * *

I
needed to pull my team together who had, in the past, brimmed full of
creative ideas. So I asked Peter Glass and Mr. Henry to join me at
the Academy for the weekend. They agreed—eagerly I might add,
because not being stupid, they had an idea of what might be on the
agenda.

We gathered at the
Acorn, the Academy’s pub in the basement of Old Main. Here, low
ceilings, lower lighting, intimate nooks and crannies, wooden beams
and woodwork long etched with names and loves, wonderful food, and
even better beer all reigned supreme.

The wizened
Fourth-Class Adept, Mr. Henry, as usual, brought his thirst. Smacking
his lips following a long draught, he began the proceedings. “J.J.,
what’s got you all hot and bothered now?” he stated with a dirty
grin dripping with conspiratorial anticipation.

“Do you remember a
certain yellow Ferrari that we pulled over on the Jersey Turnpike?”

“How couldn’t I?
That thing was an automotive wet dream.”

“Well, I got a
call yesterday from its owner, Mr. Meneer, who is now Mr. Grimes
courtesy of our security department, and he passed along the location
of the temporary CMES North American headquarters in Manhattan.”

“You don’t say,”
Mr. Henry said with another big grin.

“And gentlemen,
President Silver Moon has given me a green light to use that
information as I please. Hence today’s topic. We did a damn good
job of planning and executing the removal of Presto. Now, what should
we do about their temporary digs?”

Peter Glass adjusted
his new wire-rimmed glasses and frowned over his pint. “Just how
far do you want to go with this, J.J.? Do you intend a biblical
one-for-one exchange? Exact direct retribution for the Christmas Eve
Massacre?”

“Our president
requested that I use my common sense in planning this op, which I
intend to do. But no, Peter, my thought is not to go ape, but instead
to simply unnerve CMES with a feat of sheer audacity.”

“What do you have
in mind, J.J.?” Mr. Henry asked.

“Imagine for one
moment how CMES would react if we again
plundered their HQ like we did several months ago, but this time we
abduct their new regional director. Once in our hands, we squeeze him
dry of intel, and when we’re finished, we deposit him at the front
door of the hotel we kidnapped him from. A quick in and out, with
little or no bloodshed, but with a big message sent: You’re
powerless to stop us.”

“I really like the
minimal bloodshed angle,” Peter admitted. “What you describe
sounds more like an elaborate prank. The more we make it look easy,
the more it will hurt. Do we want to leave a calling card? Just to
grind it in?”

“No, whatever we
do has to be as sanitary as possible,” I said. “Let’s create
some doubt and confusion within their operations and security
personnel.”

“Dazed and
confused, I really like that. Do I get to interrogate their new RD?”
Mr. Henry wanted to know.

And before we knew
it, we were off to the races, brain-storming and scheming. Our table
fast became a forest of empty beer bottles.

“We’ll need some
recon, J.J., to get a feel for the place, don’t you think?” Mr.
Henry said rubbing his hands together and glancing over at Peter.

“My thoughts
exactly. What do you say, Peter? Up for some good old fashioned
astral projection recon?”

* * *

I
personally experienced in Somalia and Iraq just how any planned
action can fall apart, come undone, or go seriously sideways at the
most inopportune moment. In fact, throughout military history,
uncertainty had become so axiomatic that terms like SNAFU and FUBAR
said it all.

My battlefield
experience told me that magical confrontations had to behave the same
way, since the paranormal, by definition, presented more variables,
more unknowns. Once an aggressive undertaking was put into motion,
the opportunity for those plans to unravel became extreme.

With these
considerations in mind, our assault on the thirty-first floor began
at six pm, on a Saturday, because my planning team wanted to keep
civilian casualties to a minimum. But since preparations for the raid
began the day before, CMES would have, at least potentially, more
than enough opportunity to make things go terribly wrong.

Trouble nonetheless
began, not with CMES, but rather with the hotel’s management, who
could only provide us five of the eight rooms needed on the
thirty-second floor. Our plan specified that these upstairs rooms
were to be evenly spaced on the hotel’s square floor plan, two for
each of its four sides. The actual distribution was decidedly
lopsided leaving one side completely uncovered. Regardless, we went
forward.

* * *

On
the Friday before, Bill and Sue checked into the fancy hotel on Times
Square. Posing as newlyweds, they were all giggles. But once they
reached their passion-pit on the thirty-second floor, they flipped
over the room’s bedding to reveal the carpeted floor surface
beneath, complete with dust-bunnies. From her luggage wheelie, Sue
handed out the safety goggles, removed a high-torque, low-speed power
drill, and loaded up in its chuck a long, half-inch masonry bit.

Meanwhile, Bill
busied himself with a magnetic rebar detection device the size of his
palm. The gadget blinked a red light whenever it passed over a
metallic object. After a few swipes, Bill tore off two pieces of blue
masking tape and made an X on the carpeting.

“Here you go, Sue.
Go slow and I’ll cover you.”

Slowly she began
turning the drill bit into the fire resistant concrete slab that
divided the two floors. Bill figured that it would take them about an
hour before they reached their initial ten inch bore—one to two
inches short of breakthrough.

During the drilling
process, Bill removed a portable vacuum cleaner from his luggage
wheelie. With it he vacuumed the floor in an attempt to cover any
sound or vibration from Sue’s industry, and in the process, cleaned
up any evidence of their handiwork and all those dust-bunnies.

A little over an
hour later, and with their drill and vacuum all repacked, the team of
Bill, Sue, and the three other TIIIS couples now sat back and waited
for their appointed moment.

Unfortunately for
the four couple-teams, the subtle rumble from one of their drills had
been heard on the floor below. A quick call from the CMES Security
Department to the hotel’s management confirmed that no
construction-oriented work had been scheduled for the thirty-second
floor.

As a consequence,
the North American region’s armorer, Mitzi Randolph, posted a red
flag warning, as the assistant regional director, Mr. William
DeSalvo, was out-of-town. In his absence, the responsibility for
their operational security temporarily fell to her. Now with their
security cordon bow-string tight, no threat appeared. Hours dragged
on and still nothing. After ten hours, Randolph eased the alert
status, mindful of the strain, and much to everyone’s relief. The
detected mystery rumble was all but forgotten.

Mitzi Randolph,
nonetheless, remained worried because while the assistant regional
director was overseas, she backed him up. Always had, always would.
The two shared a bond that went way back. As for Randolph, she was a
smallish, almost mousey woman of indeterminate age, with brown hair
and eyes, a lean build, and about five-four. In essence, a face
easily lost in a crowd, but a highly intelligent one.

Since Randolph was
the region’s new armorer and DeSalvo’s long-recognized assistant,
rumor said there had to be far more to Randolph than met the eye. For
one thing, her oddly accented English grated on the nerves like
fingernails on a blackboard. For another, she had a stiff, formal
demeanor, which meant the armorer rarely smiled.

* * *

Bright
and early on the day of the assault, a Saturday morning, four TIIIS
agents posing as hotel HVAC engineers began their inspection of the
ventilation systems for the thirty-first floor. These they accessed
through a maze of narrow, walled passageways that serviced every
room’s plumbing and electrical. Almost one fourth of the hotel’s
footprint had been devoted to such service passages.

Standing before the
HVAC schematic that had been posted on the back of the access
passage’s door, the fingers of the four technicians traced and
confirmed where they should go.

“Joey, this
section is going to be a tough squeeze for you,” one quipped. “You
gotta’ start laying off the pasta.”

With their
inspection completed by noon, the four pseudo-HVAC engineers did what
all such workers do, they went to lunch. Joey was predictably
ravenous. When they returned, however, each member of the foursome
carried a dark duffle bag and wheeled between them four large,
high-pressure gas cylinders that looked like welding tanks. Once they
got back into position within the access passages of the thirty-first
floor, they too waited for their appointed time.

The welding tanks
contained a sleeping gas called Penthrane. A volatile gas, when
introduced into an environment, it readily vaporized. Pleasant
smelling, Penthrane fit this assault’s non-lethal requirements and
presented few medical risks.